


A Touch of Family

by OnceAndAlwaysEnglishMajor



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Brotp, Gen, Kyoya is touch-starved, Tamaki is all hands, growing friendship, kind of introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 19:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10997670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceAndAlwaysEnglishMajor/pseuds/OnceAndAlwaysEnglishMajor
Summary: The first thing Kyoya realizes about the Suoh heir is that Tamaki is all hands. Kyoya gets good at dodging. But friendship grows, and he slowly come to accept Tamaki's affection.





	A Touch of Family

“Keep your hands to yourself, Senpai!” Haruhi growled, stalking away from a devastated Tamaki to sit next to Kyoya on the couch. Hurt brimmed in Tamaki’s violet eyes as he watched her walk away, but he quickly tamped it down, throwing himself into his Host Club duties with his usual cheerful smile.

“Why does he do that?” Haruhi muttered. Kyoya knew she was more talking to herself than asking him, but he answered anyway. 

“It’s just how he shows affection, Haruhi. Watch him. You’ll see what I mean,” Kyoya said. 

“Of course he’s that way, flirting is the point of this place!” Haruhi responded, glaring at Tamaki’s back.

“I’m disappointed,” Kyoya said. “You’re not really looking. I expect better of you.” Haruhi stared at him in shock for a moment before returning her focus to Tamaki. He ruffled Hikaru and Kaoru’s hair as he walked by. He patted Honey’s shoulder, touched Mori’s elbow. Simple, uncalculated movements because Tamaki was Tamaki and the Host Club was his family. 

“Do you see?” Kyoya asked. Haruhi nodded, pensive. She stood up, and Kyoya let her go. She’d have to figure Tamaki out on her own. He had. 

One of the first things Kyoya decided about the Suoh heir was that Tamaki was all hands. Maybe it was a French thing. In befriending Tamaki, Kyoya got very good at dodging. Until the day he lost his temper, shoving Tamaki to the ground, sitting on his chest, yelling in his face. All of which Tamaki took good naturedly, telling Kyoya that he didn’t have to live in the box designed for him by his family. He was the first person to say something like that, or the first one Kyoya actually heard. (His sister might have tried, but he didn’t listen. What did she know about being a third son?) Kyoya scrambled off Tamaki, face furiously red, and offered a hand to the other boy. Tamaki took it with a smile, and patted Kyoya’s shoulder when he stood up. It wasn’t much, ridiculously tame for Tamaki, but it was… nice, Kyoya decided. And that was the first crack in Kyoya’s impenetrable armour, the first moment that he realized he had legitimately become friends with Tamaki Suoh, despite his best intentions. 

Kyoya learned physical interaction as a tool, something to be used to get what you want, from a firm handshake to standing just a little too far into someone’s personal space. But not with Tamaki. Tamaki didn’t calculate anything, it seemed. With him, most actions were a gift, something he did because he felt comfortable, because he liked you. Kyoya didn’t understand it, but he found himself relaxing bit by bit around Tamaki. And as he did, he discovered that Tamaki wasn’t nearly as naive as he acted, but almost twice as hopeful. He knew that Japan was a test for him, that his father was desperate, that he may never gain the approval of the grandmother who still refused to see him. Tamaki, for all his sweetness, knew the score. He had hidden steel, even as he strove to make all those around him happy.

“Come watch a movie with me!” was the regular invitation. So Kyoya went, to the Suoh’s second mansion, where Tamaki lived with just the servants and his dog. 

They started stiffly. (Kyoya was stiff. Tamaki was Tamaki.) Kyoya sat bolt upright on the couch, as far from Tamaki as he could get. Tamaki would move closer, setting a bowl of popcorn between them. Or he’d spread a blanket over both their laps when it got colder. He nudged Kyoya’s shoulder with his own when he wanted the other boy to pay particular attention to his favorite scenes. And Tamaki would talk, quietly, about his life in France, about watching movies with his mother, wrapped up in blankets on the couch, or curled in bed on the days she didn’t have the strength to get up. Gradually, so gradually he didn’t notice it was happening, Kyoya unwound. He would nudge Tamaki back to focus during important parts of the movie, let Tamaki scoot closer until their thighs were touching on cold days, smack his shoulder when Tamaki said something too ridiculous. He accepted Tamaki’s arm thrown around his shoulder if they were standing next to each other, patted him on the back when Tamaki dramatically slumped into his arms over the lasted world shattering event. (Most of which involved Haruhi and her refusal to let him close to her, lately.) He would never admit it, but Kyoya liked being part of Tamaki’s weird little family.(He had to be, to answer to ‘Mommy’).  It was so different from his own family, closed off and full of expectations. Tamaki was passionate, he cared deeply, and that just overflowed. He had to touch people, show them what his words would never be fully able to say, how much he cared. 

Tamaki wandered over once Haruhi left, flopping onto the couch and laying his head in Kyoya’s lap. 

“Mommy, why doesn’t Haruhi let me care about her?” he asked plaintively. 

“Give her time,” Kyoya said, stroking the blond hair absent-mindedly. “She’ll come around. I did, after all.”


End file.
